


Like a Hook Through the Heart

by Translucent_Heartlines



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Pre - Red Dragon, Some Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Translucent_Heartlines/pseuds/Translucent_Heartlines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Will is released from prison after Hannibal flees Baltimore. This is her journey of rediscovery, heartbreak and the final game between Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shadows on her floor had stretched far that night, almost touching her face as she lay on the cot. The buzz of the electric door woke her from her dreams.  
She was never asleep, only dreaming.

The footsteps echoed down the hallway, vibrating in her ears and curling around her brain.

It could not possibly be a visitor - all her friends had slowly left her to shadows as the evidence against her mounted up. The darkness of the prison had found a way inside her heart and mouth, making her say cruel and unwarranted things. With every dimly lit day, she could feel herself changing, a metamorphosis that had crept unwarranted into her cells, into the very fabric of her being. 

The twisted stag in the corner of her eye would be proud, the constant companion that occasionally spoke in dulcet European tones. 

She wondered what her father would say if he could see her now. Would he be disgusted to see the only part of him that remained on this earth spent her days rotting in a cell?   
Sometime she liked to imagine that he was in the room with her, his weary face peering back at her from across the cell. She always imagined him in oil stained flannel and faded jeans - never the hospital gown and tubes that he had worn the last time she saw him. They had not look alike, her and her father. She had the pale skin and blue eyes of her unknown mother; he was tanned and dark from years of outdoor work – his hair and eyes coal black.

She wondered if it had hurt him to look at her. He had loved her, the absent mother that Will could barely remember. She had been like Will – socially awkward and full of mental neurosis, at least, that was what a distant aunt had said. 

Will wondered if her mother had ever been able to find happiness – if she had been able to love someone despite the flawed psyche of her mind. She wondered if she was even alive. It seemed unlikely. 

The ghost of her father and Will never talked.

Talking had become something that other people did. 

 

“Miss Graham?” the voice asked, dislocating her from the chambers of her mind.

“Yes?” she replied - her voice crackling from disuse.

“You’re free to go” he said, throat clenching on the word ‘free’.

Will stared at him. Had her brain finally taken to self-deprecation? Surely not, if she were to create anyone to taunt her – the man with cold eyes and a razorblade smile would be standing before her, not this weary lawyer with a coffee stain on his tweed jacket. He droned on, his mouth shaping words that her brain refused to hear. 

The ringing in her ears reached a screaming pitch, her vision blurred. The nightmare stag of her dreams watched her fall to her knees as sobs forced their way through her lungs and up her throat. She managed to hear several words. 

Hannibal had killed Alana, and attempted to butcher Jack before fleeing Baltimore. 

It seemed such an inelegant thing for him to do; he had never been a monster who killed without forethought. No, she realised, this was nothing but another move in their game, his final strike before declaring checkmate. 

She shivered, electricity tingling down the spine as she wondered in horror how far into his dark, twisted world she would go before reaching the light again. 

 

 

Chilton stared at her through the cell bars, the slight tap of his cane the only noise in the dark room. 

“I suppose you expect me to listen whilst you gloat” he drawled, his voice scraping against her ears. 

“Who said anything about gloating?” Will retorted.

“I did. You know, the press is already banging down the doors. I believe you have Freddy Lounds to thank for your newfound celebrity image.” 

“And I suppose that you will claim that you believed me this whole time, write a few essays, become a national hero?” she hissed. 

She was being petty, she knew it, but Chilton had been a constant nagging presence these last few months of her incarceration. His questions about her childhood, her lack of mother figure, and his probing about her somewhat dull sex life had made her wish that Gideon had finished disembowelling him.

“I was thinking of writing a few essays about you first” he said, voice droning on. 

“The whole world believes that you and Dr Lecter were lovers” Chilton’s eyes flickered to hers for a second, mouth upturned in a twisted smile. 

“How many late nights did you spend with Hannibal, I wonder? Discussing me, eating his food” Will replied. 

“Perhaps it is not me they will accuse of being Hannibal’s lover, but you, Frederick” she said, laughing as his face paled. They stood, glaring at one another – neither wanting the other one to admit defeat.

“Jack is in hospital, but he called to demand your release” Chilton said, breaking the silence that had come between them. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Will said, struggling to stand on her feet.

“We’re waiting for protective custody - can’t have you served up on Hannibal’s dinner table alongside some potatoes and carrots” he drawled. “Only the best for one of America’s greatest would – be female serial killers.”

“If I were you, I would be more worried about myself. You have been awfully rude” Her voice hissed on the last syllable.

“I’m not the one that Hannibal is currently obsessed with” Chilton retorted, stiffly walking towards to entrance. 

“Be careful, Miss Graham” he called, voice echoing down the corridor.

 

Her release from prison took days. Stacks of papers needed to be signed and approved; Chilton of course, took his sweet dam time signing anything, obviously enjoying the aggravation it caused Will.

They handed her clothes back on the second day. They felt strange, like a different person’s belongings. Nothing fit her, her clothes hung loose against her small frame. When she changed in the bathroom, she could barely recognise herself. 

Her hair was too long, falling down past her shoulders, her cheekbones too prominent. Worst of all were the eyes. She couldn't call them her eyes anymore. Despite the obvious difference in colour and shape, they were Hannibal’s eyes that stared back at her, the same cold gleam that haunted her waking moments. 

Another piece of herself which he had stolen without her knowledge.

She had always envied Alana’s graceful body, never been able to exude a feminine charm like her. She bit back a lump in her throat as she imagined Alana’s limp body on Hannibal’s kitchen floor.  
If she had been able, she would cry. Ever since her lawyer had told her of Hannibal’s escape, numbness had spread from her chest and into her heart. 

After Jack had called and abused Chilton into signing the last of the papers, she was released – the handcuffs leaving marks on her wrists that would never fade. 

The camera flashes burned her retinas, leaving imprints behind her eyelids. Freddie Lounds stood apart from the crowd of reporters, observing the swarm of people like a queen over her servants. Through the tinted glass of a black SUV, Will imagined that their eyes met. 

Lound’s eyes were triumphant. She was the only victor in this bloody battle. 

Will hoped that she burned.

 

 

Jack greeted her at the hospital. White bandages covered most of his neck and arms. 

Hannibal had tried to dissect him into pieces.

Will shuddered. 

They sat together in silence, contemplating this impossible man that had stolen so much from them. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Jack croaked, voice rasping as the sound left his torn throat.

“I know” Will replied.

“Will you look for him?” he asked. 

“No” she answered.

Jack gave a silent nod – his eyes drooping as he finally fell back into a deep slumber. Will envied his easy escape.

 

 

Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller greeted her at the exit of the hospital. The loss of Beverly Katz had aged them both, their bodies hunched from the loss of their friend.   
Brian Zeller had always taunted her before her incarceration – asking if she had anything in her closet besides flannel and denim and where the local lesbian bar was.

Beverly had always threatened to shoot him if she overheard him talking like that. 

Silently, they handed her a folder.

Inside were the photos of Alana Bloom. 

Her bod was sprawled across the tiles of Hannibal’s kitchen, her glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. 

Hannibal had taken her kidneys, killing her with simple stabs to the throat and heart. 

She refused the pendulum that flared beneath her eyes. She didn't want to feel this crime scene - didn’t want to place herself as Hannibal. He was already there, in the dark corners of her mind. 

I loved her, in my own way. The only way I am capable of. I consume her in a silent feast half a world away. This is an invitation to the person who caused this. Come and play. See my design.

The twisted stag hissed in her mind, clawing at her eyes. 

She threw the folder to the floor, ignoring Price and Zeller, her eyes streaming and mind burning from Alana’s screams, she ran. 

 

 

Her house at Wolf Trap was empty. All her belongings had been taken in evidence. All that remained was her car. 

Alana had sent the dogs to good families, breaking her promise to Will as Hannibal had whispered more and more dark lies in her ear. 

She had managed to keep Winston, who now lay on Will’s doormat as if she had never left. 

She felt a burning in her throat as she stared deep into Winston’s mismatched eyes. His eyes whispered ‘I waited for you’. 

She didn’t even bother to enter the house. It had belonged to someone else, and that person was long gone. 

“C’mon Winston, let’s go” she whispered.

Will travelled far, first heading as far north as she could. The cold felt pure. 

Jack tried to call her. Will threw her phone out the window, hearing the satisfying crunch as it hit the tarmac. Winston stared at her, his head slightly tilted. 

They stopped at a small mall in a town with a name Will couldn’t be bothered remembering.

She ignored the gigantic televisions which showed pictures of her alongside the cold face of her nightmares. 

Nobody recognised her. She had lost too much weight since the picture was taken; her hair was too long and was beginning to show strands of grey. Most of all, her eyes were too cold and alien, disguising her. 

She bought dog food and clothes – shuddering at the sight of meat in the freezers - and with a sigh, two bottles of whisky. 

 

The motel was cheap and smelt of mould and cheap perfume.

She couldn’t help but remember the hotel she stayed in when searching for the Minnesota Shrike. The day that Hannibal had first knocked on her door, entering her life and wrapping his darkness around her spine so silently she hadn’t even noticed. 

Will drank herself to sleep that night, enjoying the burn of whisky chasing away the numbness that reverberated through her body.

She fell asleep remembering that fateful day, the day when they were bound together by the blood of their adopted daughter. Abigail whispered to her in the shadows, her pale blue eyes accusing, the gash of her throat dripping blood across Will’s bed. 

She continued north, leaving civilisation far behind. 

They camped in a dark, frosty forest. Will enjoyed the silence, could barely feel the chill. 

Will killed a deer, enjoying the sensation of warm blood and muscle underneath her hands, watching as life left its eyes.   
She honoured every part.

Winston howled that night, his low growls echoed against the empty trees.

 

Days grew into weeks. Will sold her car, bought an old and rusty Chevy Truck. She paid in cash, avoiding a credit trail that would lead to her. Both of the men who stalked her knew how to track their prey. 

They forever headed north, crossing the border. She used a fake passport – made by a man she had arrested when she was a cop for identity fraud. 

She spent far too many nights in greasy bars, drinking the pain away. She watched people – the greasy truckers with long beards and baseball caps, the women who reeked of cigarettes and desperation. Nobody noticed her, despite the news on television that had now taken to describing her as ‘the Cannibal’s Wife’. 

She snorted at that. 

She wondered who had started that rumour. Probably Freddie Lounds. 

She reached a lake, watching the ice crack and move sluggishly across the surface. Winston chased a few birds near the water’s edge. 

She tried eating food that day. She vomited as soon as the smell reached her nose. 

 

'

 

 

Weeks turned into months. She ran out of money quickly. A bar in a small town showed a ‘work wanted’ sign. 

She was a horrible bartender. Her hands shook too much and she couldn’t talk to customers without stuttering.

The owner was an old man with eyes that saw too much. His nephew was a man about Will’s age. She blushed every time he spoke to her. His laughter lit up the room and sent shivers down her spine. 

He introduced himself, despite the nametag that clearly said Matt. 

He seemed to enjoy talking to her, despite her stuttering words and her inability to make eye contact. His smiles were easy and open; so unlike the man who haunted her.   
He spoke with a Southern twang, reminding her of warm summers and her childhood.

She liked the way his blonde hair curled around the base of his neck. 

He would occasionally touch her waist when they worked together at the bar, moving her when she stumbled in his way, causing her to blush and stumble even more. He loved Winston, would stroke his mottled fur until the dog fell asleep in his arms. 

They never talked about Will’s past. His eyes would flare with understanding if her face was shown in the news. 

She had forgotten how nice it was to be understood.

His friends would jokingly call him ‘Molly’ - a name that he had inherited from a story he was unwilling to tell her. 

Sometimes he would invite her to dinner, to see a movie, or just to have a drink after work.

Will had been alone so long that the word ‘yes’ had stuck in her throat, unable to escape. The stag in the corner of her eyes had glared at her with eyes full of consternation.  
He waited until she was able to meet his eyes and smile before asking her again. 

They met at a quiet restaurant. Will’s stomach clenched nervously at the mention of meat. She had been about to order a glass of whisky when she caught Matt’s eye. The contact had been fleeting, but it spoke of worry about her frail figure and drinking problems. 

She ordered water instead. 

After a dinner full of nervous smiles and fleeting small talk, he invited her back to his place. Her heart fluttered and she choked nervously around the water she had just swallowed before nodding.

His apartment spoke of a poor upbringing, unwilling to spend money on unnecessary things. Books were stacked everywhere, most battered from constant reading.   
He smiled nervously at her as he offered coffee.

She nodded. They drank their coffee in silence. Will had moved to leave, ducking her head when his eyes connected with hers

Suddenly, she was in his arms. They were so warm, causing goosebumps to stir across her skin. His eyes burned into hers. 

He kissed her gently, tasting of coffee and warmth. Her mouth was awkward at first; it had been years since someone had been this close. He was patient, waiting until her brain remembered, gently moving against her lips. 

Her body acted on instinct, pushing her closer and moving her head for better access. 

His hands clenched on her lower back, making her gasp. Her brain would usually be screaming at her at this point, her partner’s emotions would be battering at her skin, her empathy distracting her from the any pleasure that could be had. 

Instead, the usual chattering of her mind was blissfully silent. 

She allowed him to drawn her to his room. The bed was soft as she lay against it. 

Matt smiled at her, his face close. Will smiled back gently. 

They took their time undressing, slowly peeling each other’s layers. Will should have felt self - conscious about her bony body, the scars on her shoulders from gunshots and the marks from handcuffs on her wrists. 

Instead, all she felt was a deep burning happiness. 

They fucked until Will’s blood was burning magma in her veins, her body wrecked from orgasms that shook through her. 

She had never really reached full climax before, her empathy and neurosis blocking her from completion. Now, her body was making up for lost time, her blood burning with long hidden desires. 

Matt’s touch managed to brush away the lingering taint that prison had left on her skin. 

She smiled the next morning. Another piece of her that Hannibal had taken from her – his darkness had taken away some of her overwhelming insecurities and fears of rejection which had ruled her life. 

He was welcome to it. 

 

 

Spring came slowly to the sleepy northern town. With the change in seasons came news of her former life. 

Hannibal had been spotted in southern Italy, with a former FBI Agent, Clarice Starling. Will grinned at this news; he had always been a sucker for Europe. She imagined Hannibal sitting on a beach somewhere, probably thinking about eating some rude hotel staff. 

Clarice and Hannibal had met when Will was in prison; the feisty redhead had demanded questions for a profile of a serial killer. Will, in spite, had sent her to Hannibal’s office, knowing that the good doctor would love her bright eyes and sharp questions. 

She regretted bringing the young girl into Hannibal’s web now. 

Some small part of her tugged at the mention of Hannibal’s sighting. She knew that if he had been spotted, it was only because he wanted to be spotted. He was still trying to draw her in, to play their final game. 

She ignored the silent tug on the invisible thread which connected her and the doctor. 

If he wanted to play, he would dam well have to wait. 

She continued to work at the bar and had moved into a small house on the outskirts of town. The grouchy landlord had glared at her suspiciously at first, but she and Will had become firm friends.

The old lady occasionally let her drink sweet tea and eat homemade cookies on her porch. 

Winston had begun to show his age, some white peeking through the browns and gold of his fur. 

The locals had slowly grown to accept her into their small knit community. It had brought tears to Will’s eyes – her childhood had comprised of forgotten goodbyes and stranger’s stares. 

It felt nice to belong somewhere.

Matt had left for a few months to find work down south.   
She missed his warm smiles and having someone to hold as the nightmares paralysed her with horror. 

She could imagine herself growing old here. She could imagine having children with Matt, could visualise them growing old together. 

If only the creatures in the corner of her eyes would let her. 

If only the monster was locked up behind bars.


	2. Chapter 2

The gentle knock on her door woke her from her nightmares. 

Heart pounding, she opened the door. 

She expected her monster, but this was far worse. This was beyond her cruellest imaginings.

The policeman stared at her with eyes full of pity. The flashing red and white lights reflected off the Sherriff’s badge on his chest. 

With voices rasped with sorrow, they told her words that she refused accept.

Matt had died on his way home to her. A truck driver had fallen asleep behind the wheel and swerved across the opposite side of the road. Matt had been killed instantly.

She wondered if he had felt any pain. 

Empty words of consolation were given by strangers - people who she neither knew nor cared about. 

 

They buried him in the town’s cemetery, next to his mother and father. His grave was on a gentle hill overlooking the town, underneath an old willow tree. 

Matt’s uncle stared at her with eyes full of condemnation. She silently accepted his stare, feeling it burn through her chest. 

 

People placed roses on his grave. Will put a sunflower on the freshly dug wet dirt. Matt had hated roses. 

 

Appropriately, it started raining. Will watched the silver drops fall from leaves of the tree above her, the way the drops ran down the chiselled marble where his name was engraved. 

 

She wondered how long this empty piece of rock would stand, how many centuries it would see before the words faded beyond recognition. 

She wondered if anyone would remember this warm man with a voice of summer, and how he had loved a girl who had been too broken to love him back. 

 

The tears slid down her face silently. 

Will stayed behind until day turned into night – until she become so cold and wet that she would never feel dry again. 

Winston stayed with her, eyes watching her mournfully. 

They left in the middle of the night, leaving everything behind. 

 

They drove south this time, until the cold released them from its clutches. 

Will poured herself a drink for the first time in two years and stopped sleeping.

She passed a bookstore. A familiar face reflected back from the display window. Chilton had finally printed that book about her, his smug smile plastered across the cover. The title was classic Freddy Lounds – ‘The Cannibal’s Wives: The True Story of Clarice Starling and Will Graham.’

She shuddered and then swallowed the remainder of the whisky in her flask. 

On a whim, she bought the book. 

“I think this Chilton guy sounds like kinda a douche, don’t ya think?” asked the shopkeeper, a young teenager going through her ‘goth’ phase.

Will tried to smile and nodded silently. 

“I heard that Hannibal Lecter ate some of his victim raw. Man, if I were this Will chick, I’d move to Antarctica.” 

She tipped the shopkeeper extra.

She tried reading the book, but her mind refused to work, eyes fuzzy from too much alcohol. 

Will started moving from bar to bar, only pausing in her self destruction when they closed and starting again when they opened.

She grieved for Matt in her own way. 

She fuelled the burning rage that burned in her chest. 

Sometimes, when she was numb from whisky, she would try to talk to the stag in the corner of her eye. It never replied, only staring at her with glassy eyed apathy when she threw a bottle at it in rage. 

On a whim, she renewed her credit cards and started using them in bars, buying erratic things on ebay and sending them to her hotel’s address. 

She regretted it each time, and when she was sober again, would have panic attacks so severe that black spots appeared in her vision. In frenzy, she drove further south again, not stopping until she reached the ocean. 

The smell of salt in the air reminded of her father, of her childhood.

A small shack became home for her and Winston.

She tried repairing boat motors, but her hands shook from too much whisky. Then she gave up and started drinking full time, only entering society when her bottle was empty. 

She decided to cut her hair shorter and stopped eating. 

 

Will was having a drink at the local bar when everything went to hell. 

She was on her fifth – or maybe sixth - beer - when a hand stopped her from bringing the bottle to her mouth.   
“Hello, Will” a voice whispered from next to her.  
Will swivelled around on the bar stool.

Clarice Starling sat next to her – smiling gently. 

“You look like hell” she said, slight southern accent twanging. 

“I wish I could say the same.” Will replied, too drunk to feel self-conscious about her greasy hair, day old clothes and the shadows under her eyes.  
Clarice, however, looked stunning. She was more tanned than last time they met, her skin golden and gently freckled. Her hair, usually so red, was sun – streaked and more golden. Even her clothing was different - not cheap and practical, now expensive and finely cut. 

Will laughed gently – Hannibal knew how to dress his toys well. 

Clarice met her eyes after Will was finished examining her. The new clothes and sun gold skin was a minor change compared to her eyes. 

Instead of being warm and full of questions, Clarice’s eyes were now cold and all too familiar. 

Too familiar because Will had the exact same eyes, saw them in the mirror every day. 

Will’s gut winced with sympathy. 

They were both Hannibal’s toys – and it was her fault that this bright girl now had the cold eyes of her nightmares.

She sniffed back the lump that had stuck in her throat.   
They both sat in silence for a while, contemplating life.

“How…how are you?” Will stuttered, voice slightly slurred. 

“I’m fine, Will. Better than I’ve ever been, in fact” Clarice replied, drinking some of Will’s beer.

They made awkward small talk for awhile. Will tried to ignore her brain, which was screaming at her to run away. 

“Hannibal misses you, I think” Clarice sighed, looking away for awhile. 

Will choked on her beer, and stared at the redhead. 

“Really?” the brunette asked, finding it hard to imagine Hannibal telling Clarice this.

“He talks about you often. I think he was expecting you to run after him as soon as you were released.” 

“I know, but doing the opposite of whatever Hannibal expects is kinda my trademark” Will replied.

Clarice laughed at that, throwing her neck back. Will admired the pale column of her throat. 

“I think that’s the reason why he loves you” Will stared at Clarice as the redhead grimaced slightly. 

“Never thought I would spend most of my life trailing after you, both at the FBI and with Hannibal” Clarice said bitterly. 

“Do you, I mean, how, can you feel about him like that?” Will asked, fearing the answer.

 

“Do you really think I had a choice in loving him? Do you think you do either?” Clarice laughed grimly.

Suddenly, Will felt so sorry for this girl, this girl so much like her they could be sisters. Tears ran down her face at the overwhelming guilt, the first time she had cried since Matt’s death.  
I’m sorry, she whispered quietly. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from him. 

Clarice watched her as the tears flowed. 

 

They sat together at the bar until closing time, then returned to Will’s house. 

Winston sniffed at Clarice suspiciously and went outside to the porch. 

They shared Will’s bed, holding each other as nightmares wracked their bodies, clinging so tightly to one another that Will would have bruises on her legs and arms for weeks.

Clarice stayed until sunlight peeked through Will’s kitchen window. 

“Do you have to go?” Will whispered, holding the redhead close, never wanting her to leave. 

“You know I do” Clarice responded, brushing the hair from Will’s eyes. 

They sat for a few hours just holding each other, listening to the other’s breathing. 

Clarice left her when Will fell back to sleep. 

 

When Will woke, a note was left on her table. 

‘Eat more, you look like shit’ 

Underneath was a mobile number. 

Will smiled for the first time in months. 

 

After several more days, Will booked at a fancy restaurant on her credit card for three days ahead.

Exactly three years since her release from prison. 

She wondered if Jack would appreciate the sentiment. 

 

She waited for him, refusing the food, but drinking plenty of wine. The waiters glared at her suspiciously. 

She was well into her second bottle when he finally appeared, his hair was completely grey now, and the lines on his face deepened.   
“Hey, Will” he rasped. 

She remembered the gash on his throat which probably affected his ability to speak. 

Another thing that Hannibal had stolen.

Jack stared at her, his eyes noticing the greyness of her skin and the way her body was nothing more than skin and bones now. 

They ate in silence – he ordered them both the vegetarian pasta. 

Bella had died, that much was clear from the grief on his face. 

He offered for her to come back to Baltimore with him. 

Will accepted with a silent nod.


	3. Chapter 3

Baltimore hadn’t changed in her time away.

She joined an alcoholic support group, determined to overcome the addiction which had stolen so much of her life.

For the first time in years, she forced herself to eat three meals a day, began exercising, enjoying the feeling of a rapidly beating heart and the rush of blood in her veins.

She stayed with Jack. He was all alone, like her. It was funny how their old feuds had been long forgotten.

She did not tell him about Clarice’s visit or the phone number tucked away in her jacket pocket.

Winston had begun to get arthritis in his joints, hobbling around instead on sore legs. She bit back tears at the thought of losing him.

Most of all, she took this time to plan.

Plan for the inevitable, for when her and Hannibal’s stalemate would end. 

 

She visited his house – which now stood derelict and with a notice for demolishing taped against the door.

Even if the house was destroyed, the earth where it stood would forever be tarnished, the screams and whispered lies had seeped into the very earth where she stood.

Freddie Lounds called it ‘Baltimore’s House of Horrors.’ Will was disappointed that the journalist hadn’t thought of something more creative.

She entered through the doors, noticing the creak as it moved. Hannibal would wince, forever the perfectionist.

Everything inside – from his paintings to the very last silver spoon – was gone.

She moved through the rooms – her eyes flickering between memories to the sight before her.

His room, at least what she thought had been his room, was empty – the wardrobe full of his suits were gone. She hoped that the police had burnt them, out of spite.

 

Will wondered if Hannibal had ever imagined her in his bedroom.

 

The cellar was the last place she visited. She had sighed when the Tattler first reported the horrors Hannibal’s lair. It almost seemed such a cliché for a man with such sophisticated tastes to have an evil lair like the villains in the movies.

Perhaps she would always think too much of Hannibal Lecter – would always overestimate the man who had caught her.

They had found Abigail Hobbs and Miriam Lass here – their bodies frozen and limbs and ears cut off.  Hannibal had closed their eyes so they appeared to be sleeping.

Abigail had mostly been consumed – all that was left behind was her head and part of her arm.

With a flash, she was behind Hannibal’s eyes.

 

Miriam Lass was the first person to ever see Hannibal in his true form. Abigail Hobbs had been the daughter he would never have. Clarice was the girl who had flew too close to the sun and had been sucked into his gravity. Will was the warrior who would avenge them all before being burnt herself.

Hannibal had loved them all in his own twisted ways, these women who had been able to see him for the first time in his life.

Will started to move towards the door, eyes unseeing and feet remembering the path through his house.

She still remembered the tang of rubber in her throat and the burn of vile as she vomited up a piece of Abigail Hobbs.

He had held her hand briefly when she shook with fever and shock upon discovering an ear in her sink.

 

She remembered the way his hand felt cool against her feverish warmth – the skin feeling like soft paper against her slightly rougher hands.

At the time, she hadn’t noticed the way his hands could crush a windpipe easily, could stab someone without remorse. She had just enjoyed human contact when she was being drowned with shadows.

 

Will still remembered the false look of grief he had pretended to feel that night.

 She wondered if he felt anything more than cool apathy sometimes.

 

The door creaked again as Will left the house that would always bleed darkness into the world.

 

She waited for six months, growing stronger and fitter until the perfect opportunity arose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, I was sorting through my works and decided to post my finished story. I hope you have enjoyed it, and keep a look out for my other works in the future!**

 

 

The news that night reported that a young girl had died of a drug overdose. They however, failed to mention the fact that she had bright blue eyes, straight brown hair and wind chafed skin.

She could almost be the twin of Abigail Hobbs.

If Will had learnt anything from her time as a cop, it was that once the body was put in a morgue, the surveillance was much lighter. Nobody apart from the family cared about a dead body.

She gasped at the pain when she looked at the young girl’s face. Abigail would have been at college right now, would have grown up if Will hadn't brought another serial killer into her life that day.

If Hannibal had given her the choice, Will would have died for Abigail.

Will drove under the cover of night, the body tucked in her boot.

She drove to the field, that first field where she had unwittingly entered into Hannibal’s game.

The field where a girl had been impaled on antlers and pecked by crows, the field where Hannibal had first entered Will’s life.

Will placed the Abigail lookalike in the same spot as the other girl.

She placed her on a bed of flowers – the funeral that Abigail Hobbs never had.

The girl looked peaceful, the moonlight shining of her pale skin, her hair dark against the white wildflowers that Will had picked.

She savored the memory – hoped that it would stay fresh in her mind for the rest of her days.

 

However few she had left.

The Tattler received an anonymous tip that night.

 

She left America the next day, leaving Winston with Jack.

Winston had stared her with eyes full of warning and sorrow. Sorrow that they were finally parting ways after so many years. Will knew, deep down, that this would be the last time that they would meet.

Will hated airport - hated the artificial smell and the security guards who would always stare at her. Most of all, she hated the Arrivals terminal. The joy on people’s face as they greeted their loved ones sent pain flaring through her chest. It reminded her that she had nobody left that cared.

The plane was full of happy families. Will was forced to sit next to two small children and their frazzled mother.

One of the children spent most of the trip alternating between playing with his Ipad and watching her with eyes that whispered that he knew, he knew.  

She winced, desperately wanting some alcohol to numb the ringing echoes in her brain, but ordered water instead.

 

Her phone pinged when she turned it on in Spain. An unfamiliar number had sent her a text.

_What are you doing?_ It asked.

_Be careful._

Will smiled gently. Despite being far younger, Clarice was always trying to mother her.

_I will,_ she replied.

 

The hotel room was far too extravagant for Will’s taste. She pointedly ignored the minibar full of alcohol. Her room was lit up by the city lights.

The next day was far too warm. Will, trying to keep in disguise, wore a faded blue dress that was still too large for her. She enjoyed the feeling of warm air against her bare legs. Her hair had grown, the curls reaching down her back.

Some of the local men watched her as she walked down a cobbled road. Will tried to ignore the voice that wanted her to run back and change into something more modest.

No, if she was going to play this game, she would have to become more like him and less like her.

That night, she booked a table at a restaurant that was far too expensive.

She wore one of Bella’s dresses – a deep blue dress with a low cut back. Jack had given her most of Bella’s things, ignoring her protests.

The restaurant was full of couples, the new couple in the corner sat huddled together, holding hands. An older couple were pointedly ignoring each other, staring at the happiness in the restaurant that eluded them.

Will rolled her eyes. Of course, the one restaurant she had to book was the one designed for lovers.

‘Miss Graham, we've been expecting you. You’ll be seated in the private booth’ the waiter said, his accent thick.

Will ignored the nervous shiver that wracked her body at his words.

They showed her through the mahogany doors. A table set for two, candle lit and a bouquet of white and red roses were standing in a crystal vase.

Across from her, his eyes glowing from the candlelight, was the echoing silhouette of her nightmares.

‘Hello, Will’ he said, lilting accent still permeating every word.

She stared directly at him, copying his twisted smile, her muscles aching as they formed the unfamiliar expression.

‘Hello, Hannibal’ she replied, tone exactly the same.

He smiled again, eyes alighting with victory.

 

He offered her a seat, hands gesturing to the chair across from her.

They sat in silence, quietly examining each other.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Dr Lecter was a man who would age well – every year his looks become more distinct and refined, aging with the grace and sophistication of a fine scotch. His hair had a few more strands of grey, his skin was a little bit more wrinkled around the eyes, but he would still draw admired looks from the opposite sex.

She had never been truly able to see the darkness that leered behind his careful façade, feel the sucking gravity as he pulled her ever closer into his clutches.

Now she saw every part of him.

Somewhere, deep, deep down - in the locked corners of her fragmented mind, she found herself embracing the eternal hook that had snagged onto her.

‘I must say, I did wonder if this day would ever come,’ Dr Lecter said, eyes still locked with hers.

‘You know it would, you knew from the start,’ Will said, voice strong even though she wanted to scream.

‘You know me too well. I must say, I approve of your new attire,’ Hannibal’s eyes flickered to her body fleetingly.

 

She ignored the shiver that spread through her body at his words, instead looking at the menu.

Habitually, she searched for the vegetarian meals. _No_ , a voice in her head whispered. _Play his game, you are not his plaything anymore – you are his opponent. Show him that._

She ordered a rare steak – ignoring Hannibal’s slightly raised eyebrow.

‘Wine?’ he offered.

‘No thanks,’ she replied, ignoring the taunting smell of alcohol that encouraged her.

He nodded silently. Another test, she realised, he wanted to see if she was weak enough to relapse into her old, alcoholic ways.

‘Freddie Lounds, it would seem, believes that the girl in the field was my way of sending you a lovers apology.’ Hannibal said, voice full of loathing at the journalist.

‘Well, I am supposedly your wife,’ Will replied dryly.

Hannibal smiled at that, his teeth flashing cunningly.

 

She had missed this, more than she had wanted to admit, missed the banter that could flow easily between them.

Even when she had been locked in prison, their discussions were the thing she had looked forward to most.

 

God, she was so messed up.

 

 

‘A lazy psychiatrist would say that you are only here due to a belated form of Stockholm syndrome, effectively making you my wife in a non - traditional sense,’ he said.

‘You and I both know that you are many things, Dr Lecter, but lazy is none of them,’ she retorted.

He smiled again.

‘I expected you to be nothing more than a shadow of your former self. I must apologise, it would seem that I am forever underestimating you, dear Will,’ he said, eyes flickering to her body again.

‘I am sorry to hear about Matthew,’ he continued. Will’s hand’s unconsciously clenched around her dinner knife when his name fell from Hannibal’s lips.

‘How is Clarice?’ Will asked, desperate to change the subject.

‘She has, for the moment, left me. I believe that she is waiting for you.’ Hannibal’s voice showed no emotion, no care about the redhead that Will knew was Hannibal’s lover.

‘Waiting for me? I’ve only met her twice.’

‘You and I had only met once before I killed for you.’ Hannibal replied.

 

Their meals arrived. Hannibal had ordered something that was beyond Will’s culinary knowledge.

Her stomach clenched at the look of her meal. The steak was bloody, red and smelled delicious.

Settling her face into a mask of delight – she cut a small bloody piece and raised it to her mouth.

The meat tasted like life, succulent and salty, with a tang of butter and garlic.

She slowly rolled it around her mouth before swallowing.

Licking her lips, she looked into Hannibal’s eyes. His maroon eyes had darkened.

The smile that Will sent his way was all hers, not a twisted shadow of his.

She could play his game, and she would be damned if she was going to lose.

 

They ate together in silence. Will devoured every bloody piece.

They left soon after. Hannibal helped her into her coat in a gentlemanly fashion, but his touch was too lingering at the small of her back.

Back when she had thought of him as a friend, he had never touched her unnecessarily. It had been one of the things she enjoyed about him, her mind too full of other people’s screams to allow human contact.

He had always been politely professional.

It would seem that it all had changed – his professional distance forgotten.

They walked together down the cobbled streets.

She had forgotten how tall he was - despite her heels she barely reached his shoulder.

 

People avoided them. Hannibal was a master of being unseen at times, was able to hide in plain sight. She noticed how pedestrian’s eyes would glide over him, but linger on her. She was too plain, too uncultured to possibly be the partner to this man who held such a distinct air of authority.

Looking at him, she wondered how anybody could be convinced that he was not the lion in the room.

They arrived at a small hotel with a water feature of two cherubs outside - the architectural style was clean and elegant, clearly to Hannibal’s taste.

She turned to face the man, who quite literally, haunted her dreams. She had forgotten his smell, the clean scent of freshly pressed clothes, and the subtle but fragrant aftershave. He had always smelt distractingly normal.

Part of her wanted to draw in that smell and feel the rotten smell of his darkest thoughts.

Soak in his madness and feel it creep into every pore, drown in the oily waters of his mind.

In another, fever-filled and sweaty life, she would have been invited in for some fine scotch and an intense discussion on the latest killer haunting the dark streets of Baltimore.

Silently, Hannibal held her wrists, slowly tracing the scars that were etched in silver script. The faint marks where a guard had handcuffed her too tight, a jagged line across her palm from a fishing accident in her youth.

 

She shivered when he caressed the veins on her wrist, when he paused to feel her pulse.

Once, when she had met his eyes in Baltimore, she had seen nothing but the pure and steady emotion of a friend, a partner to anchor her to reality, to keep her from suffocating.

 

Now, when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing but bright and scorching hunger.

She wanted to say a million words, scream at him, dissect him with her words and see if he even flinched.

Perhaps that had always been their problem, too much talk.

 

He had, without her noticing, drawn her closer. This close she could see the tan of his skin that whispered of the fine European sun, the gold that danced around his pupils, the sharpness of his teeth.

The softness of his lips.

She exhaled with surprise as his lips brushed hers. They were insistent, waiting for her body to relax, for her to surrender. Hannibal always looked for that moment - when a human completely and utterly surrendered, when they put their life in his hands.

Too bad that Will had never been particularly good at surrendering.

She fought back, her lips opening to his, fighting him for dominance. Her tongue was insistent, caressing his mouth, enjoying the smile that she could feel.

 

The kiss ended, as everything else had ended between them, with a betrayal.

Will felt the cold stab of a needle before the blackness overtook her.

She listened to his soft words in Lithuanian, felt his hands brushing her hair as she fell, deep and far away.


End file.
